


been here and gone

by Trojie



Series: left me for dead [3]
Category: RocknRolla (2008), Supernatural
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Shots, Drunk Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Season/Series 08, Shower Sex, Sibling Incest, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5202302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Dean comes back, and he's not pleased that Bob's been driving his car, and he's really not pleased that Bob's been fucking his brother, but Sam's got a strategy. And Bob? Bob's not exactly got anything to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	been here and gone

**Author's Note:**

> With enormous thanks to nu_breed who cheerleaded me out of the doldrums on this one and has, without question or shadow of a doubt, the best ideas ever.

Bob's all sprawled out on the bed, head pillowed on one arm crooked up behind him , and the other one fisted tight in Sam's hair, pulling. See, thing about Sam is, you never have to _ask_ him to suck your cock. He's forcing himself down hard, wants more, greedy, but because Bob's a good bastard he knows what Sam really wants out of it, and clenches his fingers harder. 

'Yeah, babe,' he croons down the bed to where Sam's kneeling over the foot of it, too long to get them both on here, with massive fucking shoulders forcing Bob's thighs wide. 'C'mon, sweetheart, fight me for it, take it,' which only makes the bastard slow down. Typical. Sam's mouth is so fucking sweet, so wet, and he'd have Bob in it to the hilt if Bob'd let him, but now that Bob's taken hold instead he's just suckling at it, slow, lots of tongue, lots of gentleness, and it makes Bob's eyes glaze over and his grip soften, just for a moment. His fingers loosen, he stops pulling - which is when Sam adds a touch of teeth. 

Bob swears a blue streak, and he clutches Sam's scalp with both hands and shoves, fucks into his mouth, dick twitching-hard and leaking, and that was completely what Sam was going for, because he's a dirty, dirty boy - 

and then there's the click of a safety being taken off just by Bob's ear, and someone rumbles, 'you're gonna take your fucking hands off my brother right now.'

Bob, very slowly, does as he's told. 

'You must be Dean,' he says, as Sam pulls off and coughs. 

'The fuck he is,' Sam says, equally as growly as their visitor, his usual talking-to-monsters voice.

'You can run all the tests you like, Sammy, once you put your pants back on,' maybe-Dean says, holstering the gun. 'And once your friend here's gone. We got family business to talk.'

'Bollocks to that,' Bob says, sliding off the bed looking for his trousers. 'If you're not Dean why the hell would I leave Sam alone with you, huh? You could be anything.'

'Oh, someone thinks he knows something, does he?'

'I know enough,' says Bob, which is when he tosses the entire contents of his holy-water hip flask over probably-Dean's face. 

***

Dean runs a pretty good interference campaign, and he's fucking livid that Bob's been driving his enormous car, but Bob's not going anywhere til Sam tells him to leave, and, well, it looks like Sam's trying a little bit of rebellion on good old big brother. So here Bob is and here he stays. Goes against the grain to ride in the backseat of anything, but he'll admit Dean's a shit-hot driver. Anyway, backseat means sleep and fucking hell but Bob needs it, way Sam's been keepin' him up at nights. 

Sharing a motel room's apparently how the Winchesters have always done it and they're not about to change the habit of literally a lifetime just cos there's a third wheel involved. And it does not surprise Bob in the slightest that Sam's got a desperate hardon for fucking three feet away from his supposedly sleeping brother. Not that Bob has a problem enabling that. 

Cos, y'see, lookin' at Sam there you'd think, wow, that boy won the genetic lottery. But fuck if Dean isn't a specimen as well, and Bob, well, Bob's only human, and he's never had, whatcha call 'em? Boundaries. That's it. He's never really had boundaries anyway. So if Sam wants to back his arse up into Bob in the night and rut against him until they both come, Bob's good with that. And if Sam wants to spend his shower time getting slicked up so he can do what he's doing right now? Pushing himself onto Bob's cock fucking increment by increment, shaking and biting the pillow and utterly, utterly silent?

Well, Bob will hold steady and let him, and sneak a hand up to tangle his fingers in that gorgeous fucking hair, to give Sam just that little edge of a sting, because he can be a good boy when he wants to be. And Bob will listen out and hear how the breathing in the other bed is short and jagged. And he'll have a couple thoughts, maybe, about boundaries. And how to cross 'em. 

***

Under sheets that reek of fuckin' blood and mud and the shitty 90% proof piss that they use to disinfect wounds and probably clean spoons too if they had any damn spoons, Bob lifts his head to murmur in Sam's ear, 'Look at him.'

Moon's bright tonight. Full. Cheap motel curtains leave nothing to the imagination, and neither does Dean's tight black underwear under the paper-thin sheet. Every curve, every muscle corded tight. Dean's a work of art, like Marcel Duchamp's fuckin' urinal, yeah, he's a readymade invitation to mess up.

'He's not asleep, y'know,' says Bob, running his fingers over newsprint-mottled skin in the silver half-light. Sam's back's always bruised, Bob's learning. S'what happens when you belly up to danger that's bigger than you - you get chucked on your arse. 'He's waitin' for you to roll over for me, so he can get off on how you breathe when you're being fucked.'

Sam keeps his eyes shut. Dean's fake snoring is so perfectly soft and slow, Bob's impressed. 

'Everything you know,' he says, sliding his hand over the cut of Sam's hip, flirting with the elastic on his boxers. 'Everything you've done, and this is your line?' Sam's hearin' him, Bob can feel the tiny tremors of muscles being locked up tight, but hearing isn't answering, and Bob already knows where this goes. 

'I hope self-righteous tastes as good as you think it does,' Bob sighs. 'But seriously, boys. I've seen where denial takes you, and it isn't the fuckin' scenic route.'

***

'I don't know how you do things back in Merry England,' says Dean very quietly, looking at Bob in the rearview mirror while they wait for Sam to pay for the petrol, 'but you do know he's my brother, right? Like, same mother, same father, 100% blood related, brother. This ain't some 'chosen family' bullshit here, buddy.'

Bob shrugs. 'Mate, no way there's two families this bloody mental. I know what you two are.'

'So what's your game? I can't get a fucking read on you, man.'

'No game.' Bob stretches out in the back seat, vinyl sticking to his sweaty back, knowing Dean's watching him move. 'I reckon maybe killin' evil's not a bad way to spend my time, for now, so here I am. And I like fuckin' your brother.'

Dean rolls his eyes. Bob can't tell if it's a 'well, duh' eyeroll or a 'I'm half a second from knifing you' eyeroll, but who cares. 

'Pretty sure you'd like fuckin' him too, if you gave it a go.'

Dean screws up his pretty, pretty face. 'And, see, that's where it gets weird.'

'Why? You trying to tell me you never did twins? A ladies' man like you? Nah, come off it, mate. Whassit your lot say? Can't play a player?' Bob laughs. 'I been in your seat, Winchester. Drivin' the nice car, you've had 'em all linin' up for you. But let me tell you, the one you never let yourself look at, the one playin' on the wing for you? He'd be all yours, mate, if you asked him right.'

Sam takes this moment to yank open the door, one hand occupied balancing a cardboard tray of coffee, and spectacularly win the Bad Timing Awards. 

Dean keeps looking at Bob, though, in the rearview mirror.

***

They killed something today that had so many teeth in its head Bob's pretty sure there can't have been room for a brain, and now they're 'celebrating'. 

Hah. 

Dean Winchester drinks like a fish. Sam Winchester drinks like a slightly less suicidal fish that's better at covering its tracks. They call their nasty whiskey 'hunter's helper' most of the time - that is, when they're not calling it 'breakfast.' Apparently if you keep being self-destructive for long enough you just kinda become an unkillable brick wall of bad habits, or something. Bob usually keeps his lip buttoned and sips his slow, because he figures he owes his liver after all the shit he's put it through the last couple years. 

And he's gonna do that tonight, he decides as Dean hands him a chipped motel mug with about three nips worth of rotgut in the bottom, because something's gonna go down, he can fuckin' smell it in the air already. Someone's gonna need to be the sober driver. 

(and maybe someone's gonna need to be able to get it up if things _go down_ the way he hopes, although, y'know, Bob's got the feeling that these boys've never had much of a problem with whiskey dick.)

'You did good today,' Dean says to Bob after the long, warm, intimate silence of him pouring a drink for his brother. 'Guess you're learning.'

'Tryin', at least.'

'Well, I suppose you don't have our natural advantages.'

'Like what?' Sam snorts from his perch on the bed. _'Dad?'_

From the way Dean tenses, just a fraction, there's an argument buried in a shallow grave here. God knows what fuckin' horror's under there to dig up. Knowing what little he does of these two boys, Bob reckons their dad musta been a piece of work an' all. 

So he knocks back his half-mug of rotgut, throat clenching on the burn of it, and says 'If 'm not keepin' up to your high bleedin' standards, you'd better start teachin' me proper, then, right?'

Dean gives him a look so hot it coulda come straight from Hell, hard to tell if it's challenge or anger or plain old lust, and tips the bottle up into Bob's mug again. 

'You can start with that then, young Padawan.'

'Fuck you,' says Bob easily, and swallows the whiskey down. It goes smoother than last time, alcohol numbing his throat. 'C'mon, keep 'em coming.' He shakes the mug in Dean's direction. So much for being the sober driver. 

Sam's giving him the glad-eye, though; his foxy, foxy smile tip-tilted at Bob over the rim of his own whiskey mug, and that's enough to keep Bob being stupid, because the look warms his belly (and lower down) more than the booze ever could, plus Dean's sudden loss of his smirk, the way he's focused, moving like a hunter again, looking between Bob, the bottle, and Sam, would make anyone stupid.

'You want something, Dean?' Sam asks.

Bob thinks, for half a second, maybe Dean'll say yeah, and make a move, but he doesn't. He just pours Bob more whiskey, and sits down, halfway between them.

Sam ruins that the next time he gets up to take a piss, comes back and puts his arse down on the couch next to Bob, with a look for Dean that says _I dare you_. 

Dean doesn't. Just keeps talking.

Sam stretches out his arms along the back of the couch after a while, putting Bob within his reach, and who can blame Bob for leaning into him?

Dean still doesn't rise to it, although he's not happy. Conversation drops off, and Dean puts on the telly, some daft American cop show re-run he's clearly seen a million times. It distracts him, though, and that's when Sam puts his mouth on Bob's pulse point. 

Dangerous game Sam's playing. Bob's favourite kind. 

Sam's apparently decided to be a handsy drunk tonight, and Bob can _see_ Dean's hackles rising when he realises what's going on, slow through the mist of booze, even though it's Sam molesting Bob and not the other way round. Jealousy's jealousy. Goes either way. Goes both ways. 

Bob's gotta hunch though, about Dean. 'Bout how he operates.

Bob's hunches are usually pretty on the money. 

'Oi, Dean,' he says, arching into the way Sam's suckin' on his neck and running his hands down to get at Bob's belt buckle. 'Get the fuck over here, mate.'

'How about you get your hands the fuck off my brother,' says Dean, just like old times. 

'Only if you put yours there instead.' Bob cracks an eye to look straight up at Dean. 'Don't tell me you don't want it. Actually, how about you don't talk at all, sweetheart.' He grabs Dean's shirtfront, twisted up to make a fist in the cloth, and pulls him til he's forced to lean on Sam just to stay on his feet. 'How about you do as you're told?'

And he was right, wasn't he, because Dean folds like a bad hand, right onto the couch between them, and Sam, drunk and stupid and with his priorities right in order, goes for him.

Dean rears back, straight into Bob, when Sam ghosts a testing hand over Dean's cock and looks at him like he's worried he's gonna spook. And he is, Bob can feel him tensing, so he wraps his arms around Dean's chest and hangs on.

'You want it,' he says low in Dean's ear. 'Don't lie to me, babe, I can smell it on you.'

'No,' says Dean, stubborn, all hard muscle under Bob's palms. 'I won't.'

'But you want it. And Sam there, he wants it too. And you don't have it in you to say no to him, do you Dean?'

Dean turns his head, looks away. Sam's sitting back on his heels like he's waiting for permission, what a good boy, but Bob can tell him he ain't gonna get it, not explicit verbal consent, not from Dean. Bob knows closet cases. Dean's mouth'll say no but he'll claw you close, he wants to tell Sam - he'll fuck you til you're aching and tell you he can't the whole time, no, no, no with every shove of his hips.

'Course, this is a little bit more twisted than your standard closet case, maybe - extra layer of sin bedded right down deep, but what does that matter, huh? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, right?

'How long, Dean?' Bob asks, quiet as a church mouse, right in his ear. Private, like. Just the two of them. 'How long since you started wanting him? How long you been telling yourself you'd never do it, never cross that line?' He starts to unbutton Dean's shirt as he talks.

'Fuck off,' Dean spits, but the way he's moving now isn't fighting to get away. S'got a rhythm, a roll to it, his arse cradled up against Bob's hips just right.

'Way I see it,' says Bob, 'Sam over there, he deserves it. Works so fuckin' hard, Dean, he really does, and he wants you, and you know you could take care of him the right way, don't you. Your little brother, an' you want him livin' like a fuckin' monk, do you?'

Dean's breathing is wet, heavy. He's staring down his own body at his brother like he's never seen either before.

'You and me, Dean, we could make sure he always gets what he needs,' Bob murmurs, catching Dean's earlobe in his teeth, Dean's nipple between his fingertips. 'You just gotta let go, babe. Let go for me.'

Bob's other hand slides down to the zip on Dean's trousers when Dean's body goes soft and pliant for him, when the fight leaves him and he's ready, so fucking ready Bob can't wait to see him spread out, can't wait to see Sam eat him up.

The teeth on the zip click and let go so loud in the sudden, breathless silence. Bob works Dean's fly wide open, slides the denim away either side and curves his hands around and under to ease the fabric out from under Dean's arse. 

He isn't wearing underwear. Sam's eyes are huge in the dim light, and he wants so bad that Bob can taste it as he wraps his hand around Dean's cock and takes a slow, already slick stroke. 

'C'mere, babe,' he tells Sam. 'Come get what you want.'

Sam's lips kiss Bob's hand when he slides his mouth around the head of his brother's dick, and that plus the way Dean groans nearly does Bob in on the spot. 

'Fuck,' he breathes, slowly easing his fingers out from where Sam's working himself up and down. Dean's balls are already starting to get sloppy wet, and Bob cradles his palm around them, so fucking delicate, so gorgeous, and then inches down further to stroke at Dean's hole.

That's another hunch proven right, as Dean makes a shocked, aborted sound in his throat, but spreads his legs, still half trapped in his jeans, as wide as he can. Not his first rodeo then, and Bob thinks he knows just exactly what to do with these boys, how to introduce them to each other, but it isn't just his decision, is it, now.

'Sam,' he says, wiggling his fingers to get Sam's attention. 'Darlin'. How d'you want him?'

Those hazel eyes darken, dilate like something chemical's doing it, and he pulls himself off Dean's dick in a long, achingly pretty slide. Boy likes sucking cock, sure, but this is something else. Bob's starting to wonder if maybe everything leading up to this moment's just been practice.

'Want him to fuck me,' says Sam, in a voice rasped velvet rough by use. 

'Go get yourself ready for him, then,' says Bob, nodding at the bed. 'Let him see,' he adds, because Dean is still shaking half denial and half desperation in his arms, and Bob knows this is gonna take a bit of a push to go the way everyone wants it to.

Sam climbs up on the bed, all million miles of him, and he don't bother with niceties, Sam, not when he's all worked up. No, he goes straight for the lube under the pillow where Bob left it last night, goes hands and knees, belly down over the sheets. 

Dean makes a noise in his throat and moves like he wants to turn away. 

'No, you watch,' says Bob. 'You watch him, sweetheart. You been away, haven't you? Somewhere you din't wanna be, far as I can judge. But you came back for him. Did you think about him? I bet you did, see.' He slides a hand full onto Dean's cock and starts to stroke it, slow, in time with Sam's fingers pushing into his body. 'Bet you missed him so bad you ached for him, bet you jerked yourself raw for him.'

'You're a sick fuck, you know that?' Dean growls, but he's so, so hard, and his heart's beating fast. Sign of a liar. Also, sign of someone turned on beyond all belief by their little brother fingering himself rough and wide for them, just as a point. 

'Takes one to fuckin' know one. Sam, love, you alright over there?' Bob asks, because Sam's got four of those long, beautiful fingers up inside himself, and he's panting wetly into the pillow. He's ready, he's fucking ripe, low-hanging fruit, easy game, and it's time. Sam's too far gone down the rabbit hole to even answer him, just whines and shoves harder at himself. 

'You know what to do with him?' Bob asks Dean, lips against the curl of his ear. 'You know what to do with this?' and squeezes at Dean's cock, all gentle and warm. 'Ready?'

'I -' Dean starts. But, no.

'Ah-ah,' Bob warns him, starting to push, to get him to his feet, already too fuck-stupid to be stable. 'None of that, sweetheart. You do wanna. And he wants you to. Don't be shy, I'll help.'

Dean doesn't need help, not that much, not when it comes to his hands on Sam's skin, it turns out. Bob wasn't sure how he'd take it, finally getting to touch, but it's like watching him come home, relieved and weary. An' Sam, Sam crowds up against the wall, not to get away, but to make space, up on his knees with his hands on the headboard, head hanging low and hair straggling around his face. He shudders when Dean lays hands on, like that same relief is rollin' through him too.

So Bob just guides those hands where they're needed, to free Sam's fingers so he can brace himself, to show Dean how to stroke and push and find that space inside for himself. Bob takes a sec to slick his own fingers and walk them around to Dean's gorgeous arse. 

'Like this,' he croons, when Dean hesitates, and slides one of his own home.

Dean's spine melts. 'Fuck,' he curses, voice low and warm, trembling. 'Jesus fuck.'

'Been a while, huh?' Bob asks, but Dean's relaxing around him fast, his control over his body just that good, the same way he works a knife or a gun - instinctual. Bob wonders, working two fingers back in, how long sex has been Dean's weapon. 

'C'mon,' Sam's panting, shoving back towards Dean with his palms flat against the wall now. His voice's gone deeper than Bob knew it could go. _'C'mon,_ please.'

'I gotcha, Sammy,' says Dean, but he hesitates. 

So Bob pushes. Literally. Kneels up to put the head of his cock at the way into Dean's body, leans forward to get his fingertips on the wall, and pushes. 

'You heard the man,' he says, dragging his teeth down Dean's neck, tasting the sweat off him and the fine shiver of his skin under Bob's lips. 'Fuck him, Dean. Fuck him like he fuckin' deserves, for bein' so good for you, for waiting for you, for havin' the balls to make a move when you wouldn't. Don't have to worry, I know how he likes it. Can show you,' he growls, reaching round to take Dean in hand. 'It's easy.' 

It is, too. Sam gives like Christmas when Dean finally gets his arse into gear, shoves in like he needs to. Bob's held still long enough, straining to just fuck like he wants to, and if maybe he gives Dean a bit of impetus, well, so what? And then it's like he's racing to keep up. 

Dean fucks like a machine, turns out. Like a dream. It's all Sam can do to hang onto the wall and spread his knees far enough to stay stable. The bed's making noises like it's dying, and Dean's got an arm around his brother's waist, going hell for leather, and the other stretched back around Bob's neck, pulling him close, eyes closed and mouth buried in the cords of Bob's throat. He rocks between the two of them like he was made to do nothin' but this, and Bob just lets it take him, staring at the picture Sam makes spread out in front of him, groaning and biting his lip bloody, coming in jerks and streaks all over the motel wallpaper. 

Bob fucking loves watching Sam come. And he's just starting to hit his own stride when Dean bites him, hurls him head first into his own sweet orgasm, grabbing at the pair of them as the world tilts just a little bit on its axis and he starts to fall. 

He's aware through the roarin' in his ears that Dean's coming, clenching and fucking through it, but then Bob really is fuckin' falling. There's a splintering, crunching noise and they're all shaken half off the bed. 

'D'we break something?' Sam says groggily. 'Holy shit.'

'Think we broke the bed,' says Dean. 'And me.'

Bob cracks an eyelid to look at him in the half dark, all sweat and come in the ruin of the bed and his brothers sprawled limbs, and wonders how true that might just be.

***

'It in't just a river in Egypt, huh?' Bob says to Dean the next night, after a day of awkward, angry silences. Sam's gone to the loo, which is sure to be an experience in a bar like this, which makes it the perfect moment to ambush Dean. 'Sweetheart, you really think this is the healthy way to deal with what's eatin' you?'

Dean looks up from the chips he's been playing with. 'Don't fucking call me that,' he says, a razor undertone to his voice. 'I look like a chick to you?'

''f you did, you think we'd be havin' this little talk? Mate, you got me all wrong.'

'Mate,' says Dean flatly, and it sounds all kinds of wrong in his accent. 'We aren't talking.'

Bob rolls his eyes, and drags his bar stool closer. 'No, 'parently not, but I tell you what, Dean, you oughtta at least talk to Sam. Me, I'm a fuckin' drifter, mate, I could be outta your life tonight if you told me to piss off. But look me in the eye and tell me Sam'd let you go if you walked.'

Dean looks back down at his plate. 

'Way I see it, you got two choices,' says Bob. 'Do the right thing, which'll fuck you both right up for the rest of your lives, cos that'd be like askin' a fuckin' wino to live under a bar. Or do what you do with the rest of your shitshow life, and work with it.'

'He's my brother,' says Dean. 'I'm supposed to look after him. I'm not supposed to -' he bites off his own sentence, like he refuses to even say the words. 

'He's big enough and ugly enough to decide who he wants to fuck,' Bob points out. Dean doesn't say anything, clearly doesn't agree, and Bob stares at him. Dean won't even make eye contact with himself in the mirror behind the bar, shoulders hunched, toying with his fuckin' food. 'Dean,' says Bob, as gentle as he can when he wants to shake the fucker, 'you're not the monster you gotta save your brother from.'

Sam exits the bathroom and starts picking his way across the crowded floor, between pool tables, back towards the bar. 

'And if you really think you are,' Bob adds. 'Then you better leave him now.'

Dean turns, elbow pulled back like he's gonna clock Bob one good and proper, and Bob, seeing it coming, scrambles to his feet to try and get away. He deserves it, he knows he does, but fuck it, who wants to get punched in the face? 

And then Sam's in between them. 

'My round, huh?' he says, like he doesn't know what he just interrupted. And when they're sitting again, beer settling ruffled feathers but Dean back to his silent broody Heathcliffe act, Sam catches Bob by the jaw and kisses him. 

Bob's poleaxed. Sam doesn't let up on him, either; coaxes him to open up, clever mouth drawing him deep and one hand already on his knee. Bit racy for a public bar and definitely not the way you kiss a bloke in front of his only living family, but Bob's never been good at the word no. He ends up half straddling one of Sam's thighs, leaning up into the kiss with his tongue in Sam's mouth and both his hands in Sam's hair. 

A rattling thud on the bar is what finally gets Bob to pull away, and by the time he actually convinces himself to stop doing what he's doing and look, Dean's already racking up at the closest pool table, some yuppie student barely old enough to be drinkin' in here and definitely too young to be makin' cow eyes at Dean like that his willing victim. 

'Ignore him,' murmurs Sam in Bob's ear, biting his earlobe and making him shiver. 'He doesn't know what he wants.'

'More fuckin' fool him,' says Bob. 'More for me,' and pulls Sam back in. 

But Sam only gives him another minute or so, pool balls clacking behind them as Dean pulls no punches, then draws back, licking his lips. 'Wish me luck,' he says, looking over Bob's shoulder at where Dean presumably is. 'It's time for a Hail Mary play.' He nods back at the bathroom. 

Hah. So the snogging was tactics. Smart boy. 

Bob twists to eye Dean and the opposition. Dean's already down to the eight ball, lining it up, and his mark's still got a table full to sink. Any minute now he's gonna look up. Sam gets up off the bar stool and sinks the rest of his beer, then pulls at his plaid shirt until it looks like he's been messed up more than Bob dared to in public. When it's half unbuttoned, showing off the tight shirt underneath, and he's bitten his own lips even redder, Sam looks so fuckable Bob's having a hard time not bending him over the bloody bar, audience or no.

'If he doesn't follow you, I fuckin' will,' Bob says, prayerfully. 

'Follow me anyway,' Sam invites, a wicked little gleam in his eye, and oh, he's a smart boy but he's a dirty boy too, just how Bob likes him. 

So Bob waits until Dean looks up, and then slaps Sam on the arse as he makes his about turn break for the gents', gets up like he's gonna go too - and yeah, there we go. Dean barely manages to stuff his winnings in his pocket before he's chasing his brother across the bar. The bathroom door slams. 

Bob takes the time to drink the rest of his beer lazily, chucks a coupla bills on the bar for the good bastard who didn't interrupt him mid-snog, and follows. He hopes there's mirrors in the bathroom.

There are, it turns out, but it's better than that. 

'-ck, Sammy,' Dean's breathing, hands fisted in Sam's hair. 'God. Fucking want you so bad, I can't - I can't think straight, kiddo, you gotta stop, I swear. S'driving me nuts, Sam.'

Sam's got both hands down Dean's jeans, hiking him close, hitching him onto the hand basin, kissing his neck with more teeth than finesse. 'Can't stop,' he growls. 'Won't stop. I'm gonna fuck you drunk in every fuckin' bar bathroom we find, until you admit you want this sober.'

Bob, because he is a good lad, locks the door behind him and leans on it. 

'And what about him?' Dean pants, looking at Bob over Sam's shoulder. 'Your new best friend, what's he gonna do in this scenario, Sammy?'

'I'll fuck you drunk in bathrooms too if you want, love,' Bob offers. 'S'the least I can do.'

Sam laughs, and drops to his knees. The lack of Sam keeping him up lets Dean stumble off the edge of the hand basin, right into the spread of Sam's knees on the grimy floor. 'He's gonna watch my back,' says Sam, pulling Dean's flies open. 'Right, Bob?'

'Always,' says Bob. 'You just tag me in whenever you want me.'

Sam's too busy to talk, though. Dean's leaking through his underwear, and Sam licks at it, pink tongue against those black boxer briefs getting Bob's engine running hot too. He grabs at himself through his own jeans, staving off too much excitement too soon. Dean's in no place to do the same, though, and Sam's getting him sweating without even getting his fuckin' underpants off. 

When he does, though, when he finally peels the cloth down, shackles Dean with it so he can't move and swallows him down, the noise Dean makes can prob'ly only be fully understood by fuckin' dogs, it's so high in the back of his throat. That's when Bob shoves his own hand down his pants, because fucked if he's capable of _not_ touching himself listening to the sound of Sam's mouth on Dean's cock. 

Dean's hips are pumping like he's about to lose it before Sam pulls off and gets to his feet. And he nearly ends up going arse over tit when Sam starts pushing him backwards towards the toilet stall, unable to deal with the clothes around his ankles, shocked by the sudden loss of the mouth on his cock. Bob wasn't even the one getting blown and he can sympathise. 

Sam opens his belt in three hard, fast movements, drops his pants like they're burning him, shoves Dean down to sit on the closed toilet seat, and Bob gets a flash-fast moment of realisation that he must have fuckin' found time to do his favourite trick, work himself open early so he doesn't have to deal with it in the heat of the moment, before Sam swings a leg around and sits on his brother's cock in one smooth move, back to belly. 

'Fuckin' Christ, Sam,' says Bob, awed. 

Sam arches back to catch hold of the cistern pipes behind Dean's head. Dean's eyes are blown so wide he looks drunk, off his head on something that's way too much for him to handle, and Bob reckons that's just exactly what Sam is when the need's on him. Too much, and fuckin' glorious. 

Dean recovers himself after a moment, though, and clearly it runs in the family. He smooths a hand down Sam's back, and then pushes him down. His hands find Sam's hips like that's the natural place for them to sit, and Bob's gotta say, it looks pretty good to him. He wishes he could draw. Or that he had a decent camera on him, maybe, because these two, they're art. His jeans are getting in the way of him now, he needs to get his hands on himself properly, no way is coming in his pants gonna satisfy what this is doing to him, so he shoves them down his thighs as much as he can without taking his eyes off where Dean is fucking up into Sam's pliant body, kicks them the rest of the way off, fuck it, he locked the door, not like anyone's gonna come in and see him in the nick, is it. 

'You gonna do something with that dick?' Sam rasps, looking up at Bob through his eyelashes, Dean's hold on him keeping him from straightening up properly. 'Cos I got a use for it if you don't.'

'Told you,' Bob says, leaving off stroking himself and coming forward, cos he's pretty sure he knows what Sam's anglin' for. 'Just tell me where you want me.'

'Want you in my mouth,' says Sam, eyes glittering. Dean snaps his hips and shoves his hands higher, pushing Sam down, fuck, he's so bloody _limber_ , and Bob steps up and does what he's told. 

(He likes doing what he's told, sometimes. Just sometimes, though.)

Sam's mouth is plush and hot, familiar. But he isn't working it the way he usually does - no, fuck, he's letting Dean push him onto Bob's cock, like he literally wants to get fucked from both ends, so Bob catches him under the chin, pulls out and shoves in, glides over slick, velvet wetness, almost as good as fucking him for real except this way, Bob gets to watch Dean do that.

'He loves it when you do that,' Dean says, catching Bob's eye. 'I was ready to gut you, first time I saw you, for putting your fucking dick anywhere near my brother, but look at him.'

''S like I said,' says Bob, grunting as he thrusts and Sam swallows convulsively around him. 'You still worried he doesn't know what he - _fuckin' Christ, Sam, babe, Jesus_ \- what he wants?'

'Still think he's wrong,' Dean says. 'But I guess he's got a right to be a fucking dumbass the same as the rest of us. And it's not like he's gonna stop. So what else am I gonna do?'

Sam's moaning now, between the two of them, and Bob knows what that means, and sees from Dean's face he prob'ly does an' all. 

'C'mon,' Bob tells Sam, stroking the hair off his gorgeous face, thumbing the teartrack at the corner of his eye. Fuck, it fuckin' does shit to Bob, knowing he can push a man like Sam far enough to overwhelm him like that, for his body to react like that, so fuckin' pretty watching a big strong thing cry from gettin' too much of what they want. 'Babe, c'mon. We gotta get movin'.'

They've been in here long enough. Sooner or later someone's gonna want the bog, after all. 

Sam screws himself down til his lips kiss the skin of Bob's belly, and comes with a muffled whimper. Bob yanks himself free but loses it all over Sam's face, which he didn't exactly plan on but can't be sorry for, jesus, watching it streak across those cut-yourself sharp cheekbones and bead on Sam's mouth, drip from his hair. 

'Fuck, fuck,' Dean pants, and before Bob's quite got his own balance back Dean's rearing back, pulling out and jerking himself all over the small of Sam's back and his arse. 

For a few moments there's nothing but strained, heavy breathing, Sam collapsed in Bob's arms, the pair of them sprawled on the floor, and Dean only by the grace of the toilet not joining them. 

Then someone, typically, bangs on the bathroom door and it's a scramble to get enough of the come off Sam that he can go out in public again and to find all their bloody clothes. It's entirely not surprising they get chucked out on their collective ears after that. 

What is surprising is that Dean wants to go to another bar, and Sam, rubbing a thumb across his lip like he's trying to taste, agrees. 

***

'Ah-ah-ah, don't get up,' says Bob to Sam, about an hour, two bars, and probably about twelve shots of tequila later. The shots of tequila were mostly done by a nice lass in a pink veil with very loud friends who's about to get married, and they were all twelve of them done off Sam's abs. 

There are customs in this country Bob hates, but that isn't one of 'em. 

Sam lies on the bar wearing nothing but come-stained jeans and an embarrassed, drunk smile, and Bob waves the barman over. 'Can we get another round of those in here, mate?' he asks, watching Dean having a tete a tete with one of the bride's friends, swapping something, maybe a phone number, who knows. Interesting, though. By the time he makes it back to the bar, Bob's got 'em lined up. 

'You up for it?' he asks, offering Dean a glass. 

Dean picks up the salt. 'It'll do for starters,' he shrugs. 'Gimme your hand.'

Bob holds out one hand and Dean licks it, salts it, licks it again, hoicks the shot out of Bob's suddenly nerveless fingers, pours it straight into Sam's navel and barely lets a breath go by before he's slurping it up. The lime out of Sam's mouth is an afterthought, almost. Bob's got his third erection of the day.

'So, are we doing this or what?' Dean asks innocently.

Bob grabs the next tiny glass without even a thought.

They get kicked off the bar when the tequila starts trickling under Sam's waistband and Dean starts trying to lick it up. Actually, they get kicked _out_ of the bar. Sam's gotta put his shirt back on, which is basically a crime against humanity. 

'I'm all sticky,' he says. Bob can't tell if he's proud or upset. 'Seriously, this is gross,' he adds, holding the shirt away from his belly, so, probably means he's not best pleased. 

'Quit bitching,' says Dean, kicking a rock down the pavement. 'It was your idea to fuck in a goddamn bathroom, idiot.'

Bob slides a hand onto the small of Sam's back as they walk through the motel carpark, caressing the sweaty skin under his shirt. 'I'll clean you up,' he offers, and he's only maybe half meaning it in a dirty way. 

The look Sam shoots back at him, though, that's _all_ dirty, and Bob can't get Sam inside fast enough, although Dean's just as bad, fumbling the keys when Sam plasters himself all up along Dean's back. He's fuckin' trouble, this boy, when he gets going. It's always the quiet ones. 

Not that he's quiet when they get him in the shower, though, jesus. Something's come unlocked in Sam since Dean first laid hands on, and Bob's got front row seats to it. They fuck like they fight, which is a bloody cliche an' a half but it's true - they're loud and they bite and neither one of 'em wants the other to get the upper hand. The neighbours are banging on the wall by the time Bob and Dean wrestle Sam into the shower. 

'You auditioning for a goddamn porno or something, Sammy?' Dean asks, scratching soapy fingers down Sam's chest, trying to clean off the mess the last few hours has left on him. 'Moaning like you're being paid for it.'

'Don't stop,' Bob growls into Sam's ear. They've both got him shoved up against the shower wall, half under the spray, pinned so they can get him fuckin' cleaned off before he gets them filthy again, which he's gonna, no doubt about it. Bob's selflessly decided to take the job of cleanin' all that nasty mess of tequila and hen's night lipgloss and god knows what else off Sam's belly, and that means cleaning the surrounding areas, y'know, cos you gotta do the job properly or why are you botherin'? And if that happens to mean he gets to slide his hand under Sam's balls and slide fingers along under there, pushin' Sam's thighs wide to get better access, well, can't fault a man for attention to detail, can you? 

And if he happens to _like_ it when he's got Sam, who's a head taller than him even on a good day and could easily benchpress a yeti, immobile and squirming and trapped for him, well, fuck it. Because beside him's Dean, who's got one hand wrapped around Sam's cock and the other carding shampoo through his hair, and he's got that look on his face, of having a target in his sights. He likes it too, of course he fuckin' does. 

'Oi, Dean,' says Bob quietly, leaning towards him. 'C'mere, mate,' and mouths a kiss at the corner of his jaw, trails more, soft and hungry, across until he can bite Dean's bottom lip. Against Bob's wrist, Sam's dick jerks. Bingo.

'He's bin showin' off for us all night,' Bob murmurs. 'Wanna return the favour?'

Dean's mouth, that fuckin' mouth, probably as illegal across the continental US as the rest of the shit he does, curves. He grins. 'It'd only be polite,' he says, and the hand that was in Sam's hair is all of a sudden in Bob's, or at least, is sliding across the dull fuzz of his buzzcut, pulling him in until he and Dean are hip to hip with Sam wedged in front of them.

Dean kisses Bob like he's got something to prove. More teeth than he uses with Sam, Bob reckons, but that's just fine, Bob likes a sting in the tail. 

'You guys are killing me,' Sam growls, and struggles. He gets a hand on Bob and Dean slaps it off, grabs him by the wrist and shoves it against the tiles. 'Fuck, _Dean -_ '

'You'll get what you're given and you'll like it, bitch,' Dean says, in a tone that makes Bob shiver, fuck yes. 'Now pipe down.'

'Bob?' Sam tries, panting.

'He's calling the shots this time, babe,' says Bob, shrugging. He does, though, shove his knee harder between Sam's thighs. Keeps him in place better, yeah, but it does also give him something to rub off on. Never let it be said that Bob didn't treat his boys properly. 'Reckon you'd better do as you're told.'

Sam struggles, but Dean's clearly got his number, catches the other wrist as well and gets both of them in one of his wide hands, fingernails digging in between fine bones. Sam fuckin' whimpers when Dean slams his hands above his head, elbows bent and cracking his head against the wall because he throws it back in some kinda anguish, he's so hot for it.

'Where were we?' Dean asks Bob easily, like he hasn't got his brother's cock leaking against his hip. 

'Somewhere round here,' Bob murmurs, stopping admiring Dean's moves and sliding in to get more of that fuckin' mouth instead.

Sam squirms between them, makin' noise enough to wake the dead and either not able to get out of his brother's hold or just not wanting to, maybe, but Dean and Bob edge closer and closer like magnets until the water suddenly splutters out shockingly cold and Bob realises he's been grinding his dick in the cut of Dean's hip and his mouth is sore, and he still hasn't actually washed himself. 

But fuck washing himself. He's only gonna get dirty again.


End file.
